


the grind

by youcouldmakealife



Series: but always in tandem [30]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 21:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9402695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: Robbie’s holding on tight, but the tighter he holds on, the more it looks like his hands are curling around nothing in particular, that he’s just balling them into fists.





	

Robbie’s not going to claim he’s psychic or anything, but he does have a good day. Nothing, like, special good, just — it isn’t awkward to sit with Matty on the plane right now but Chaps gives him a vaguely pleading look so more Breaking Bad it is, they have a fairly relaxed sesh when they get in, barely a practice at all, just a way to keep them sharp, work on a few set plays. The first power play unit’s got some extra work to do, because they’ve been sucking, but second unit’s been just fine, hell, has been better than the first, so Robbie mostly gets to chill. 

After practice is dinner with the Class of Canadiana at this place Wheels is downright obsessed with, has dragged them to both roadies since he discovered it rookie year. Robbie doesn’t really know why, because there’s a place just like it in every damn city they go to, probably, but it’s not bad or anything, and even though Wheels calls him a pleb for just getting a steak while he’s chowing down on fucking — Robbie doesn’t even know what, but it looks both fancy and gross — it’s a good steak, and a good steak’s a good steak.

After dinner Wheels grabs his Xbox from his room — Robbie doesn’t know why he bothered, he gets the point of bringing them on long-ass roadies, but they’re going to be back home at the end of the week and it’s a pain in the ass to lug it around — and sets up a mini-tourney in Robbie’s and Matty’s room without permission. Okay, without Robbie’s permission. Matty probably gave in. Matty’s weak.

It’s good though, the four of them fighting over who has dibs on the two controllers — Wheels obviously, since it’s his, and Matty and Robbie both try getting it because it’s their room, but obviously there’s kind of a math problem right there. Crane snatches it while they’re arm wrestling for it, which is probably for the best, because it takes Matty approximately three seconds to beat Robbie.

Chaps swings by when Robbie texts him. He doesn’t want to play or anything, which is fine, because he isn’t much competition, but he divides his time between his phone, which has gotten _really fucking fascinating_ to him in the last month, and joining in chirping whoever’s playing at the moment. The chirps are a little weak, but they’re miles better than what he could’ve come up with at the start of the season, and Robbie’s downright proud of him.

Robbie kicks everyone out when Matty starts yawning, finds some Simpsons reruns to zone out in front of, and they’re both asleep before midnight like good little boys. 

So. Good day.

*

“God fucking damnit,” Robbie says through gritted teeth.

“Stay still,” Eric says. “And be quiet, or I might accidentally stitch your mouth shut.”

“Accidentally on purpose,” Robbie mutters, but shuts up so Eric can finish on his chin. Fucking figures, he gets to draw four minutes but he doesn’t actually get to _play_ on it, has to get stitched up and change into a fresh jersey before he gets back on the ice. First unit’s still not doing well, and Georgie doesn’t play great with Poulin, since Poulin keeps pinching when Georgie needs someone to hold the blue line for him when _he_ pinches. Robbie’s chin fucking throbs and they get a total of jack and shit to show for it.

Unless you count getting scored on short handed, which fucking happened when Georgie and Pooh pinched yet a-fucking-gain. So actually, Robbie’s chin is throbbing and they’re fucking _behind_ because of it.

“Way to hold the fucking line,” Robbie snaps at Georgie when he’s back on the bench.

“Not the one who was supposed to do it,” Georgie snaps back, sounding just as frustrated. “You okay?”

“Not minus one, so better than you,” Robbie says.

“Shut up,” Quincy says. “Stop fucking dwelling and get your head back in the game.”

Robbie scowls, mutinous, but shuts up.

“You okay?” Georgie asks again, right before they go on.

“Fine,” Robbie says. “I’m fine.”

*

They drop the game by one. Pooh looks so fucking down after that Robbie doesn’t have the heart to blame him. It’s not all him anyway. The final ninety seconds were a scrambly rush that had them looking like a fucking Juniors team, and a frankly heroic sprawling play by Matty is the only reason the North Stars didn’t get an empty netter to seal the deal. 

Not that it matters, honestly. Losing by one, losing by two, losing by fucking ten, a loss is a loss and they’re coming fast and furious right now.

“427,” Georgie says to him after the game.

“Fuck off,” Robbie says, but he ends up going. He lets Georgie fuck him on his knees, hands braced against the wall, but flinches back when Georgie brushes a thumb over his stitches, light enough to barely feel, even as tender as it is right now. 

Matty’s not in their room when Robbie gets back, and Robbie, feeling kind of blurry with the throb of his chin in time with his heartbeat, the echoes of adrenaline, the feeling of being well-fucked. He falls asleep without meaning to, still in his clothes and wakes up an undetermined amount of time later to Matty shaking his shoulder and helping him get undressed. Robbie should feel babied, maybe, but half asleep and sore, he can’t feel anything but appreciative, mumbles a thanks before he falls back asleep.

*

They win in Nashville, but picking up two points out of six isn’t really something to be super cheery about. It was an shootout win too, and giving the Preds the loser point isn’t a big deal, but with how tight the East has started getting, ROW could very well make the difference between getting home ice advantage or not for the playoffs. 

“It’s too early to worry about that,” Chaps says on the flight back home, but the way he’s holding himself, tight, tense, Robbie knows it’s bothering him just as much as it’s bothering Robbie, maybe more.

“Baller deke in the shootout,” Robbie says, to make him feel better, but Chaps just makes a non-committal sound and continues to look stressed.

“How’s Lourdes?” Robbie asks, to distract him, and Chaps goes furiously red and then elbows him in the fucking sternum. “Ow!”

“Shut up,” Chaps hisses, still bright red, but he relaxes after that, loosens up, goes like — chill, or something, like just thinking of Lourdes sucks the tension right out of him, replaces it with something soft.

Robbie tries not to be jealous of him, of that feeling, which he knows well, or used to, when even thinking about Georgie was enough to make whatever sucked a little better. Thinking about Georgie now makes his stomach twist with something grim and complicated, and as much as he hates the feeling he keeps coming back to it, like he’s scratching at a cut as it’s scabbing. If he’s going to follow the metaphor to the end, every time he checks on it his fingers are coming back wet with blood, and the wound’s only getting deeper.

“You’re going to rip your stitches,” David says, and Robbie thinks for a minute that he’s a secret mind reader, but he’s been unconsciously scratching at his chin.

“It’s itchy,” Robbie complains.

“That’s a sign it’s healing,” Chaps says primly.

“Thanks Dr. Chapman,” Robbie says. “I bet you’ve never scratched at a scab in your life, huh? I bet you don’t even scratch mosquito bites.”

“Scratching only makes things worse,” Chaps asks. “Just think about something else.”

Robbie looks over at Georgie, two rows ahead, head almost lolling onto Frei’s shoulder as he dozes, his lashes dark smudges, lips pink and slightly parted. He looks soft when he sleeps. Younger, like Robbie’s tripped backwards in time and he’s looking at the guy he fell in love with. 

Robbie looks out the window instead, even though there’s nothing to see but clouds.

*

They keep losing, and they keep losing, and they keep motherfucking losing, drop precipitously in the standings. That’s still second in their division, since it’s fucking sucked other than the Penguins, but they’ve dropped from third to seventh in the conference. More likely than not, they’ll make it. Robbie did the math. They lose most of their games and they’ll still probably make the playoffs, but they’ll be fucked if more than a couple bubble teams start surging, and they play like this in the playoffs, they’ll be out on their asses in four to five games.

It’s stressing everyone the fuck out, because no matter what they do; shuffle the lines, fiddle with the power play, change up their strategy, they’re still fucking losing. Crane’s looking downright stony all the time, because he’s been steady, his save percentage and his goals against average both great, but they’re not getting him the offense he needs to win. It doesn’t matter if you only let in one goal if your team doesn’t bother scoring one for you.

Robbie throws himself bodily into protecting Crane from the puck at all costs, and he’s aching all the time. His chin’s healing up, but that’s only one of many wounds right now — he’s got a gash below his eye, an ankle that throbs with every step, bruises everywhere. He feels like from foot to knee he’s a mess of puck impact, all in different stages, from the black-purple of a new bruise to the sickly greens and yellows they fade into. He’s not the worst of it, though, not even close. Frei’s out for God knows how long after taking a one-timer straight to the mouth. Gibson tears his MCL, out for the rest of the season, and Matty gets the worst kind of promotion, shoved up to the first line on his off-wing to try to stem the bleeding.

They win the next game, but before they can even start to exhale a sigh of relief, they drop two straight, one in OT, one in shootout. Two points is better than none, but Robbie’s never felt the words ‘loser point’ as much as he’s feeling them right now.

Robbie’s been fucking Georgie throughout it all. They’ve got a bit of an understanding about it now, Robbie thinks. Robbie leaves as soon as he can catch his breath when they’re on the road, Georgie leaves as soon as he’s caught his if they’re at home. Robbie kicked him out the first few times, when it looked like he’d linger, but he doesn’t do that anymore. They don’t say much to each other. If Georgie tries to bring something up, even hints about the ‘good ol’ days’ or whatever, Robbie shuts down, so Georgie doesn’t do it anymore. They’re strangers until they take their clothes off, and then they’re perfect until they put them back on.

Robbie doesn’t talk to him much, not in bed and not out of it, but he’s managing civil. He doesn’t have a problem talking to him about hockey, they’re all talking hockey right now, trying, desperate, to figure out something that’ll fix this, that’ll work. Robbie and Georgie are still working together, minutes climbing as things get worse, and Robbie wants to keep it that way. Things working, not high ice time in the shit salad they’re in the middle of.

They don’t have a chance in hell of catching up to Pittsburgh and snatching the division title, but if they hold on tight they can keep from slipping out of contention. If they hold on. All of them. Robbie’s holding so tight his hands hurt, forcing smiles and jokes and trying to get the atmosphere in the room up, trying to make guys smile. It’s getting harder and harder. No one’s smiling much right now. Even Matty’s getting short, snapped at fucking Crane yesterday, of all fucking people. No one snaps at Crane. Crane didn’t even get pissed, just surprised, blinking twice before Matty apologized, then shrugging like it was fine, though if it was literally anyone but Matty, Craney would eviscerate them.

Robbie’s holding on tight, but the tighter he holds on, the more it looks like his hands are curling around nothing in particular, that he’s just balling them into fists.

They hold on for two more weeks, they’ll make it. Two more. Six games. It doesn’t matter if the teams just out of contention get every single point possible, if they go .500 they’re in. That’s all they need. To win half the time, or even take those loser points and swallow the bile that comes with them. Two weeks. That’s all they need. Fresh slate after that. Playoffs are a whole different beast from the season, and Robbie knows they’ll be fine as long as they make it. Two weeks.

He keeps holding on, and his hands curl a little tighter every day.


End file.
